


crossroads

by muddledhorror



Category: Edgar Allan Poe's Murder Mystery Dinner Party (Web Series)
Genre: Alcohol, Difficult Decisions, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Late 1800s, Trains
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-09 07:09:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27149885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/muddledhorror/pseuds/muddledhorror
Summary: At the end of the long cross-country train ride H.G. and Lenore must diverge. Their respective paths are too important to them to do anything else, even if they happen to fall in love.
Relationships: Lenore/HG Wells, Wellenore
Comments: 17
Kudos: 22





	1. Boarding

The day was still new, sunlight not having yet breached the skyline and the world enveloped in darkness. H.G.’s eyes stung faintly, the way they did when you woke up ever so early, and he rubbed at them to try and wake himself up more. The smell of hot oil, mechanics, and exhaust was thick in the air, a sea of people around him moving to board the same train: The Transcontinental Express. He would be crossing the whole railway, heading all the way from San Francisco to New York. The American Exhibition of the Products, Arts and Manufactures of Foreign Nations was to take place in just five days’ time, and he would be taking another train ride from New York to Boston to attend.

Following an inordinate amount of ‘excuse me’s and ‘terribly sorry’s as he weaved around and bumped into people, he finally made it onto the train where his ticket was punched. Dropping off his baggage in the designated car, he traveled to his seat in coach. The anticipation for the huge exhibition singed his nerves, just thinking about the technological wonders he would get to lay eyes on made him giddy. Perhaps, one day, he would invent something great enough to be put on exhibition as well. For now, though, he was more than happy to simply observe.

•••

He wasn’t quite sure when he had fallen asleep, but by the time he woke up the conductor was announcing that the train was to begin its voyage and that all who hadn’t managed to board this trip needed to stand clear. It also came to his attention that he was no longer alone, a strikingly beautiful woman occupying the seat beside him. She wore a white Edwardian gown, olive skin stark in contrast to the lacy fabric. Not wanting to stare, he drew his gaze away and pulled his pocket watch out from his vest pocket. It was 7:28, out the window he could see the sun was now peaking above the horizon.

“Good morning, sleeping beauty.”

The sudden greeting from right next to him gave him a start, his spectacles nearly falling off nose and goggles rattling from where they hung around his neck.

“Ah, y-yes, good morning,” he stammered, nodding.

The mystery lady smirked at having flustered him, giving a short laugh, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you... Whatever your name is.”

“It’s H.G.— H.G. Wells.”

She quirked an eyebrow at that, “Well, nice to meet you H.G. What does that stand for?”

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly tell you, it’s terribly embarrassing.”

“I mean, if you say so. I’m Lenore, by the way.”

“Pleasure to meet you as well, Lenore.” 

Lenore turned away to take pause for a moment, dark curls bouncing in the wake of the movement, only to turn back to him again, “So, like, what are you on this train for anyway?”

“The world’s fair in Boston, so I’ll be stopping in New York. I’m sure you have heard all about it already.” He mulled over whether he should divulge how exciting an event it was to him, but ultimately decided against it in light of just having met this woman. “What about you?”

“ _No way_! I’m going to New York, too,” she made an exaggerated, open mouthed smile, gasping. “And no offense, but that sounds so totally boring.” He only half shrugged, he had long since learned his interests were not everyone’s cup of tea. “Anyway, I’m off to catch this hella cool passenger ship called the SS Adolphine to Germany, then I’ll get on another train to Paris. There’s this totes exclusive French house of high fashion specializing in haute couture, The House of Worth, that I’ve been invited to sell my fashion in. It’s kiiind of a big deal.”

“Congratulations, that sounds exciting.”

“It is,” she affirmed nonchalantly, “So what are you looking forward to at your nerd convention?” 

Wells smiled at the offer to ramble about his passion. “It’s a truly thrilling event this year, you see, it is hosting the most foreign exhibitors that it ever has, including China and Japan. It will be hosted in the Mechanics Hall— which was only finished two years ago. All sorts of fine inventions will be on display, never-before-seen and awe inspiring work. I dabble in the inventive medium too, you know. I am an author and what one would typically consider an inventor, which are really quite similar if you think about it.”

Lenore had leaned in to listen, resting her head on the palm of her fist, “Well when you put it like _that_ I can’t help but be just a little interested,” she grinned, “It sounds like you really like this kind of thing, I’m sure you‘ll have a good time.”

“Yes! I grand time, indeed, I’m sure.” Shades of red bloomed across his face, a little embarrassed at how much he sounded like an exuberant child again. It had been a life-long dream of his to attend an event of this sort.

“You mentioned you were an author, what kind of books do you write?”

“Science fiction. As you may have gathered, I am rather fond of science. I find that literature allows me to scientifically explore what I cannot in reality, like time travel or the meeting of alien and human life. Not that I believe in those things, of course. Except that I do, ah,” he swallowed, “I do. Believe in them.” His voice trailed off awkwardly, he wasn’t sure what compelled him to be so up front. Perhaps it was the way Lenore was looking at him, perhaps it was because he would never see her again so it didn’t matter if she thought him sane or not.

For some reason that last note brought a hint of sadness to him. 

“Sounds totes cool. I’m a hella bibliophile myself, when I’m not busy being fabulous, of course. But I haven’t really heard much about sci-fi.”

H.G. chuckled weakly at her sarcasm(?), not really used to people joking, “Th-that makes sense, I know it is not a very popular genre. I would recommend A Journey to the Centre of the Earth, if you have the time. It is one of my favorites. What—What are some books you enjoy reading?”

“Oooo,” she put a finger to her chin, eyes gleaming, “I am a big fan of scary stories, specifically ghost stories. There is something so fun about the idea of being able to continue chilling with the living forever. You could have, like, a zillion lovers. Or just one, if you’re sappy like that. Speaking of, romance is pretty fun, too.”

“I can certainly acknowledge the intrigue of ghosts, I too find them a fascinating phenomena to ponder; Although I cannot say I am too well-read in romance.” 

“I can tell,” she simpered.

He scratched the back of his head, shifting his eyes. It was certainly not the first time H.G. had been jibed on his inherent discomfiture.

“But it’s kinda working for you, don’t worry,” she added quickly, seeing his embarrassment.

He went wide-eyed and felt himself flush again, opening then closing his mouth silently.

“Sorry, that’s lame, I know.”

“No, no! I thought— I think—“ he paused, gathering himself and his words, “That is kind of you to say, thank you,” his gaze returned to her, giving a small, wobbly smile.

“Oh— And that does remind me....” He continued swiftly, not giving Lenore enough time to reply with being so caught up in his new thought.

•••

They spoke together for almost the entire rest of the day, just non-stop conversation. It was mostly periods of one of them going off on a long tangent and the other listening and giving small feedback, then the roles reversing. The two even ended up dining together, H.G. shyly inquiring if they could continue their avid conversation of the moment in the dining car as he was growing quite hungry. Lenore obliged, so they had eaten together, too. Since the moment they had been sat next to one another, they were glued to each other’s company. They had excellent chemistry, falling into a comfortable back-and-forth with ease.

The first time they parted since Wells woke up for the second time that morning and she had appeared, was when they were off to their sleeper cars once it had become rather late and the other passengers were already making their way there.

_“See you tomorrow?”_

_“O-of course, if— if you would like to, that is.”_

_“I would,” she winked. “Night, H.G.”_

_His face heated once more and he cursed himself for being so easily ruffled. “Goodnight, Lenore.”_

And now, sitting on the edge of the small bed in his chosen sleeper car, he couldn’t stop thinking about her. Normally he would be thinking about the hugely important exhibition, or even the wonder of the train he was riding in, but he couldn’t manage think of either for more than a short moment before his thoughts came back to the woman he had just met. Though he seemed not to acknowledge it, he was very alone in his day-to-day life and consequently very lonely. This came as a result of his implicit oddness and difficulty connecting to people— But with Lenore they had just clicked. He couldn’t help but wonder what was different, why her? Why had she so completely enraptured him?

He found he could not sleep, his head buzzed with all he had spoken about today, and all he may talk about tomorrow. It buzzed about Lenore’s deep brown eyes and her charming smile, it buzzed about how her lipstick would look on his jawline. A lump formed in his throat at the thought, a hand moving to cover where his imagination had strayed to place a mark. This was silly, this was preposterous, _he had only met her today._

And he could not wait to see her again tomorrow.


	2. 38

When H.G. woke the next morn it was around a similar time to when he had first woken the previous one. Reaching for his beloved pocket watch from the windowsill, he determined through his blurred vision that the moon-illuminated hands read 3:14. Egad. His mind was restless in the way that once he could coherently think, any chance of heading back to sleep was set to flame. He attempted briefly to shut his eyes and hoped the tiredness of his body would allow him to slip back into slumber to no avail, eyelids feeling like tightly stretched elastic and unable to remain closed.

He sat up with an incomprehensible mumble, swinging his legs over the side of the cramped bedspace and carding his fingers through his disheveled hair to put it in some semblance of order. The gunmetal of his pocket watch was cool against the palm of his hand, grounding him for long enough to clear his head of the more unpleasant morning thoughts. He slid the timepiece into the pocket of his pajama pants, getting up to rummage through his luggage. It was admittedly disorderly, the way it was packed, metal trinkets and tools glinting in the moonlight amongst his clothes and splayed notes. Finally he placed his glasses on his face once he found them and then pulled out a pencil and leather-bound journal. A lot of his writing was done between the hours of 12 and 6 in the morning, when the rigid edges of his logic were obfuscated and left room for his wildest speculations to fabricate on paper. The supernatural and fantastical bled from graphite at his calloused inventor's fingers, intertwining itself with just enough theory, just enough science. And before he knew it, it was dawn.

This habit left his eyes looking perpetually tired, but he didn't mind so much. There wasn't enough time for sleep, anyway. He always felt like he was running out of time. 

Peering through the window and squinting at the bright daylight in full force, he moved to properly dress himself and head back to coach where he would again see Lenore. And if he put a little extra time into his appearance, rolling his sleeves evenly to his elbows, ensuring no stray hair would fall into his face— Well, that wasn't something of note.

There were so many people on board, he wondered how many were going to the world's fair as he was. There were groupings of all kinds: families, couples, friends, folks riding alone— It was fascinating to observe everyone's interactions or lack thereof. In a way, humankind was a little like a machine. Each cog and screw, wire and axle, were completely necessary to a functional machine, no matter the size or shape, whether it was copper or silver. No part was more important than another in the end.

Lenore was not yet there when he seated himself, a fraction of him fretting that he had scared her off and her offer to suffer his company again was only a matter of politeness. The rest of him, however, reasoned that it was more likely she was sleeping in. As he waited, checking his watch a time or two, the steady chug of the train moving forwards and murmering of those around him steadied his nerves. A young boy emphatically blew a wooden train whistle despite the protesting of his parents and Wells smiled to himself. While often a frightening, crushing place, the world was also chock full of marvelous things. Thinking of the exhibition reminded him of that, thinking of Lenore reminded him of that. 

Seeing her walk down the center path and beam at him made him even more sure of that fact. Today she was wearing a silk dress, the flowy fabric flitting around her legs prettily as she came to sit down. It was a dark, royal purple kind of color and it hugged her around the waist nicely, ringlets tumbling over exposed collarbones.

"Uh, hello to you, too. Don't you know it's rude to stare?"

H.G. immediately covered his face with his hands, "M-my sincerest apologies— You look very nice today, is all."

"Excuse you, I am a catch every day. But... Thank you, I'm flattered." 

He heard the smile in her voice and uncovered himself, smiling nervously back. "Right, of course, how silly of me," he teased. "May I say you can certainly tell that you are into fashion? You put yourself together better than I could ever try."

She put her hand to her chest with a flourish, cocking her head to the side, "Thank youuu. While I have to one hundred percent agree, I will say your dubious academic look is adorbs in its own way."

“A h-high compliment from someone of— what was it— The... House of Worth status.”

“That’s the place!” She assured. “And I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it, you can pretty much take anything I say to heart. Good or bad. I’m, like, so not into pretending to like people.”

“I feel the same, it requires needless effort and is an overall waste of time.” 

“See? Totally. You get me,” she nudged him, the touch surprising him a little despite being small. She snickered at that, continuing, “When are you going to get over being touched? You seem a little starved.”

“Oh, I— Yes, I... I suppose so. I don’t know.”

“I’d be happy to help out, you know,” she sing-songed, ghosting her fingers below his chin.

“I’m not s-so sure about that!” He squeaked, going red to his ears before both of them started to laugh.

Once the laughing dissipated, he realized they had become rather close. They dithered at that distance for a beat. Another. Then separated with more quiet laughter and a “Crivens!” under H.G.’s breath.

A few of the other passengers stole glances over at them , turning away with a shake of their heads. This would typically make him squirm, but at the moment he seemed to care very little. He had more important things to be focused on.

“Do you... Have anyone waiting for you at home?” He asked tentatively after a moment.

“Not anymore, no.” The spirit of a wistful expression settled over her face, her lips twitching downwards, “Before you ask, my fiancé died. Right before our wedding, too. Super uncool, I know, some mystery disease,” after a long second of what looked to be mourning, she quickly regained poise and a coquettish smile spread back across her face, “But anyway, that was soo last year. Is anyone waiting for you?”

“Oh dear, I’m terribly sorry to hear that,” he paused, eyebrows drawing together at her rapid changing in demeanor. He didn't want to pry, though, so he ventured only to answer her question, "I don't have anyone, either."

"That sounds way sad, not gonna lie, but I guess I'm not any better," she shrugged.

"I suppose we are in this together, then. Seeing as there is no one else."  
  
Lenore smiled at that, but differently than all the times she had smiled before. It was more... Something. He couldn't place it. Regardless, it was pleasant. "I suppose we are."

Their silent gazes locked on each other for the second time that morning, and this time he had the overwhelming impression he should kiss her. He did not.

Instead, Lenore continued, “Could we visit the diner car to get some drinks? I’m _super_ craving a martini right now.”

“I’m not much of a d-drinker, actually. But I can still accompany you... if you would like, that is.”

“That’s fine,” she waved her hand dismissively, “I’d appreciate the company, drinking in the morning alone would be high key depressing.”

•••

It was true, he wasn’t much of a drinker. On occasion he would do Planter's punch with a bit of pineapple, but that was about it. So he wasn’t sure how he was coming up on his second glass of whiskey. He believed it was the train’s bartender, that was right, he had been rather insistent that all kinds of water were gone and just poured him a glass of the stronger alcoholic beverage when H.G. had begun to describe his drink of choice. As the man had walked away, he was sure he saw him take a swig from a hidden flask in his coat. An odd fellow, even by Wells’ standards. He wasn’t even sure at this point how many times Lenore had topped off or refilled her martini glass.

Digression aside, they were both now fairly tipsy, H.G. more than Lenore despite having consumed considerably less alcohol.

Making small talk that didn’t matter, words slurred at their outskirts and hands made their way to each other. Lenore cupped his cheek as she asked more about what he had written this morning, and he rambled vaguely about it as he had earlier. Murmurings of a Palace of Green Porcelain and black, tentacled amorphous creatures left him before he transitioned into talking about how he couldn’t stop thinking of her. It may have been fair to say he was more than tipsy. She giggled drunkly and said his books sounded enamoring as he lifted a hand to touch the one she had placed on his face. 

Sincere was the word he had been looking for earlier. Her smile had been sincere.

Soon, another staff of the train came by and, what do you know, water _was_ , in fact, still in stock. They ordered brunch and the alcohol eventually flushed from their systems, the fuzzy hours they had been drinking fading to the back of their minds as they moved to new conversation.

•••

The exhibition was in three days, his final bidding adieu to Lenore would be in one and a half. Unwarranted disappointment and tarnished excitement fought for his attention.

He could acknowledge that she was affable, yes, but he did not love Lenore. He did not love how she smiled, how she listened, how she spoke. He did not love how she moved or how her presence alone urged him to speak his mind. He didn’t love how she never took mind of his eccentric beliefs, he didn’t love her. That wouldn’t make sense, he hadn’t loved anyone in a long time. 

Time travel made sense to him, in its convoluted, theoretical manner. The existence of extraterrestrial beings made sense to him, aligning with the theory that the universe is infinitely expanding; Surely there was other intelligent life. Love did not make sense to him. It was so nuanced and muddled, he never knew what to do or how to act. He was confident in science and with a pencil during his 3AM writing sessions, but he was quite the opposite in matters of the heart. H.G. became a sputtering mess, a smitten puddle at the hands of Lenore.

He was in love with her, undoubtedly, he was in love with her. But he would have to leave her in 38 hours and counting. She would either dull in his memory or be romanticized as she was now— Either way she would be a connection lost to the past. It was wretched timing, as timing always seemed to make itself. In light of this, he decided he would enjoy the present, the moment.

It would be ideal to believe this sentiment, or the notion that he may even make a move, but he knew himself too well to acknowledge it as a plausible way he would handle things.


	3. 14

Lenore stared at him blankly a moment longer before speaking, “I hope you know I understood, like, a solid tenth of what you were going on about just now.”

“Photoconductivity.”

“Yeah, that.”

“To be quite honest I was rather lost in your explanation of color theory earlier,” H.G. admit bashfully.

“ _What_? But aren’t you like a super genius? Color theory is so basic, it’s one of the first things you learn in design.”

He glowed at the title, fiddling with the hem of his waistcoat. “Not exactly, I am not all that successful in my pursuit of invention, you know. I am a more successful author, but even then I am not all that popular— So I would hardly call myself a genius. Nonetheless a ‘super genius.’ Intellectually proficient, maybe, i-if I was feeling kind.”

“Nah, pretty sure you’re a super genius,” she said, ignoring his rambling with a smirk. “And I have a leg up on you, which means I must be a savant or something.”

“Yes, that makes total sense.”

Lenore gasped, “Goggles! Did you just use sarcasm with me? I was starting to think you weren’t capable.”

H.G. rubbed at his neck. He was not very good with tone, that was correct, but he wasn’t totally inept. “I suppose I am mysterious that way,” he chuckled lightly, voice full of gentle whimsy. Really, he thought Lenore to be far more mysterious than himself. She seemed like an open book for the most part, but sometimes skirted around particular details and depths of conversation, a misty allure clouding her.

“True... You are a little difficult to read in the face area,” she squinted, gesturing at him. “But still, I feel like you’re a little too dorky to be _mysterious_ , that just isn’t your vibe. Plus you’re super bodily emotive.”

H.G. raised his eyebrows at that, cocking his head slightly, “What— What exactly would be my ‘vibe,’ then?” He was genuinely curious as to what she thought (and also a tad unsure as to what vibe was referred to, exactly).

Lenore hummed, “Professor-esque, brainy, modest, just a big ol’ nerd,” she laughed, but without ridicule like people usually did when they tried to describe him. “I would love to dress you in something other than rumpled formalwear, maybe something form-fitting,” she looked him up and down, not-so-subtly checking him out, “Yeah, that’d be nice.”

He couldn’t help but squirm a little at the attention, taking the opportunity to give Lenore a once over as well, although his gaze was fleeting to avoid being noticed as it was so embarrassingly yesterday. Her clothes were more gothic today, a ruffled white blouse leading into a long black skirt. Hung around her throat was a necklace with a polished, black stone dangling from it. Tourmaline, he believed. “Perhaps I will look into tidying my wardrobe while in Boston.”

“You totes should, it’s a shame I won’t get to see how you clean up.”

“Nicely, I would hope.”

“I would be willing to bet as much,” then, after a split second of mulling it over, she reached out to adjust his tie, hands brushing over his chest as she then flattened his vest. She looked deeply satisfied once she had, like she had been waiting since they had first met to do that. “But first you should at least make a better effort with what you have, no amount of designer is going to make a crooked tie look good.”

He gave a stuttering nod, clearing his throat in an attempt to get his growing flush to subside, “I suppose you’re right.”

“I usually am.”

A small smile crossed his face before he continued. “Do you have a lot of experience with men’s fashion? I would assume you are considerably adept with women’s by default.”

“Hell yeah I do, I’m an expert in all fields of fashion. If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t get to measure men, which would be way disappointing,” she looked like she was recollecting a couple particularly enjoyable sessions of measurement as she spoke, and H.G. tried very hard to not imagine himself in that situation. How close they would be, her hands on his neck and waist. _Blazes_.

“That doesn’t sound very professional,” he teased softly.

“Psh! If anything ever goes _beyond_ it’s always consensual, which is professional enough for me. Besides, a girl needs to play around every once and a while. Surely you know what I mean”

“Perhaps so.”

“What?! You can't seriously be trying to imply that you've never even _desired_ a hook up.”

“That is, actually, p-precisley what I was getting at— Although that isn’t to say y-you shouldn’t, it just is not my, ah, my personal experience.” Well, that wasn’t exactly true— But this was an out of ordinary instance and therefore not representative of his typical experience.

She examined her nails, “Huh,” and he swore she looked a shade dispirited before she looked back up playfully. “You should totes try it some time, the good professor looks like he needs some fun in his life.”

Perchance he may. “I think I’ll focus on my style of dress for now," he joked. Eventually.

“I guess beggars can’t be choosers, I’ll take what I can get."

•••

Outside the diner car's window, the sky had become a scorching array of reds, urgent and passionate, as the sun began to melt beneath the Chicago horizon. A comfortable silence had settled between Lenore and himself as they ate dinner together for the third night in a row. The food was delicious, it always was, as were the benefits of riding first class. Along with the speedier travel, velvet seats, and fresh linens of course. 

As one could imagine, being a science fiction author did not pay that well, so he would usually have gone for third class tickets. Unfortunately, a few important errands regarding his family had popped up and if he had opted to take the ten-day ride once they were dealt with he would have been about five days late to the exhibition. So, instead, he paid for a ticket two times the price and would be one and a half days early. He had been too excited about being able to go at all to be upset about it, and now, gazing over at the woman across from him, he felt lucky that things had ended up the way they did.

"Hey," Lenore broke the quiet, "you sure you still can't tell me what H.G. stands for? We get off tomorrow and I feel like it would be kind of weird if I never learned your actual name."

He would have liked to tell her that people he had been companions with for years were often never told his full name, but he found he didn't have the heart to do so. She was right, they would never see eachother again, after all.

"It's Herbert George," he responded eventually, hushed so that she was the only person to hear. A cringe made its way onto his features, he had always had a special disdain for his name.

She snorted, "That _is_ a terrible name, oh my God. I get why you didn’t want to share it now.”

“There is not much I can do about it,” he mumbled, prodding his mostly-eaten calves liver abashedly.

“I would love to say I won’t tease you for it... But I totally will. I cannot deny.”

He chuckled weakly at that, resigning to his fate, “That is understandable, you would not be the first.” Being poked fun at was something he was used to and alright with so long as it was in jest, which he cautiously trusted would be her flavor of tease. 

“Don't worry, I'm great at secrets though. Lips sealed." She made a motion over her mouth to indicate that she was zipping it closed. He mirrored the gesture in turn in solemnly, scarcely able to keep a straight face. The corners of Lenore's mouth lilted upwards before she laughed, failing to do the same.

•••

Tomorrow he would board the train to Boston and the day after he would be off to the exhibition.

One would think being a writer would lend itself to better articulation of thoughts and ideas, but oftentimes he found his brain was on too fast a track for him to even process, nonetheless find the right words to describe it. 

For example, the only way he could think of how to describe how he was feeling right now was a long and somewhat convoluted analogy to a niche scenario. About how holidays were often a time full of cheer and excitement, how some were even so enthusiastic about it they felt that same energy months before the day was to arrive— even awaiting it all year long. About how sometimes, though, one became busy, distracted, and suddenly the holiday was in only a couple days and it had completely slipped your mind. About how you managed to forget to be enthusiastic in the hecticity of the season, and when trying to rekindle that feeling it was unnatural, forced.

That... was the singular digestible comparison he could come up with.

H.G. had not forgotten, of course, but he had become fairly distracted. Very distracted, perhaps, was a more accurate way of putting it. He thought back to how his voice went a little strange when he had wished Lenore goodnight just a few minutes ago, how it was gravelly, like it was the last time he would ever get to do so. How Lenore's voice went a little strange, too, softer than it normally was. Maybe because it _was_ the last time.


	4. 0

It would be cruel, to tell her he loved her now. If, by some miracle, his feelings were reciprocated, it would burden them both with the dreadfully tangible idea that, had they met at another time and were not now going their separate ways, they may have been able to have something together. More likely, however, was that it would leave him with a broken heart and Lenore with a tainted last impression. While it would give him a definite answer, wash away any what-if's lingering in his mind, it would also cause a fierce, lasting melancholy he wasn't sure he could handle. He was not unfamiliar with rejection, so its throbbing sting would at least not be new.

All the same, he felt like a coward. Couldn’t he afford to take a little initiative in his life? He was always thinking, always planning what he would say and do and how he would say and do it, crafting monologues upon monologues and ultimately discarding them. If he spoke as much as he thought, he would be the most vocal person he knew— Instead, he was very much the quietest. He had made three drafts of a confession, all which would turn to pulp if they got the chance to leave his mouth.

“Hello?? Anyone home?”

H.G. blinked rapidly at the hand waving in front of his face, “M-m-my, uhm, y-yes, my apologies.” He hadn’t even realized Lenore had arrived. “I was distracted.”

She rolled her eyes, “I could tell. What were you thinking about?”

“You,” he blurted before he could think better of it. Lenore looked stupefied. “You-You know, when you would be up. It is rather late in the day.”

Something flashed across her face as he continued before he could catch it, something that wasn’t good. “I guess it is. Z’s were way hard to catch last night.”

“I know the feeling.”

Her gaze stalled on him with an expression that was distinctly beseeching, like she wanted something more from him. When she only received discomforted blinking, the look dropped and she resigned to lean her head against his shoulder. He let her.

There were only a few hours left until they would be dropped off in New York and they passed surprisingly slowly. Conversation was ephemeral, flitting in and out. H.G. supposed that they now both felt the pressure of their time together’s brevity, too afraid to begin anything they could not finish. Eventually, Lenore dozed off against him, quiet and serene and very unlike the lively, bold Lenore she was when she was awake. Her warmth was comfortable and he stiffened when he realized she was asleep, not wanting to wake her with his typical fidgeting.

In due course, the train hissed and screeched to a stop, the passengers all beginning the murmur and shift. Lenore stirred beside him, groaning and going to cling at his sleeve.

“Good morning, sleeping beauty,” he parroted her first address to him.

She smirked up at him, then sat upright to fuss with her hair. “So we’re there?”

“We are in New York, yes.” 

The conductor came through coach, then, explaining how everyone was to depart the train. The passengers collected themselves and their things, moving to form a single-file line through the center of the seats, H.G. standing behind Lenore as they exited.

The air was cool outside, refreshing compared to the stuffy warmth of the past three and a half days. Most passengers scattered outwards, heading to wherever they were meant to be. He and Lenore hung back on the platform.

“So,” she started.

“So,” he echoed.

“It was nice meeting you, H.G.”

“A pleasure to meet you as well, Lenore.” Swarms of unsaid words burned on his tongue. “I bid you a safe trip to Germany.”

“And you to Boston.”

A pause.

“I... I think I will miss you.”

Lenore leaned in and pecked his cheek, setting his face aflame. “I’ll miss you too.” It was too little and too much all at once, he wanted— needed so much more, and yet he could barely seem to handle the feather-light touch of her lips he’d been given. 

“I—I don’t want to miss my next train, so I’ll be going,” he broke the moment, leaning back. Lenore looked a little sad, and he was sure he looked a little sad, too.

“Goodbye, then.”

He turned away hesitantly, making his way to the next station. He felt eyes on his back but didn’t dare look to confirm— If he did and caught sight of her, he wasn’t sure that he could go through with leaving.

A weight settled in his chest, unmistakable, and he tried to remind himself of all he had been looking forward to just a few days before.

•••

Once more the ride passed slowly, but it was not so surprising this time. No one sat next to him, and even if someone had he wasn’t certain he would have noticed. His thoughts were a blur of emotions, all logical thought having apparently been thrown to the wind. He tried making a pro-con list for going to the exhibition verses staying but couldn’t seem to properly finish it, getting caught adding to the cons list for too long to be reasonable.

He was being absurd, The American Exhibition of the Products, Arts and Manufactures of Foreign Nations was likely a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity he had been waiting for since his youth and finally had enough money to fulfill— He should be ecstatic! He was ecstatic, that was final.

...He was not ecstatic. In fact, he was significantly less than ecstatic. Distressed, even. Why was he distressed? Why was he even asking? He already knew the answer. This didn’t make sense.

“Are you feeling quite alright?” H.G. whipped his head around. A posh-looking ginger woman was staring at him, miffed. Oh dear.

“I—Ah—“ he cleared his throat, “I am fine, yes.”

“Then would you be a doll and stop tapping your foot for me? It is getting dreadfully annoying.”

“R-right, yes, I’m terribly sorry.”

He turned back around, gripping his suitcase tight and trying to steady himself. It was a subconscious thing, he hadn’t meant to bother anyone.

•••

The rest of the commute was highly stressful, H.G. earnestly attempting to stifle any bodily movement that created noise to avoid irritating the woman behind him again. He suspected he looked rather tweaky, as many were quick to dub him, with the twitching of his fingers and repeated rolling of his neck and shoulders to release some of the tension he was experiencing. His lack of calm was less, now, about the initial instigator of anxiety, and more about the adrenaline tarrying in his veins.

It was an immense relief to leave the train once they had reached Boston, finally able to breathe. Instead of immediately going to check in at the local motel as he had planned, though, he decided to take a walk around town to ease his nerves. It was exactly his kind of place, a booming industrial city, with factories and sparkling machinery galore. 

Still, he was distracted, thoughts drawing themselves back to he and Lenore’s parting as they had been doing the last several hours. It was staggering, awkward— the thought made him queasy. But as he went to touch the cheek she had kissed, he supposed it wasn’t all bad. When he drew his fingers back, they were tinged with a dark crimson— Oh. He had... He had gone the whole train ride with her lipstick on his face. Lord almighty. He could feel the heat of his flushed skin as he reluctantly wiped the mark away, thoroughly embarrassed.

The pigment remained stubbornly on the edge of his sleeve and he sighed, knowing Lenore would have reprimanded him for both the stain and ridding himself of her kiss.

He came to an abrupt stop at the sight of the Mechanics Hall across the road, surrounded by an interspersed crowd. Surely they were readying it for the expo tomorrow, steel carts carrying cloaked wonders of all sorts being rolled in and out, avid conversation being had and orders being given. A small group of men leaned against an especially large contraption, having a smoke to presumably take a break from pushing the massive thing. Oh, he couldn’t wait to discover what it was, only being able to see its vague form from underneath a white sheet was brutally tantalizing. Lenore would love to hear about it, he couldn’t wait to— Not... tell her. A thick, odd feeling welled in the back of his throat, a frown squirming to life on his face.

Going to the exposition by himself suddenly sounded unappealing. There was no one he could discuss his thoughts with, no one with which he could share his enthusiasm. H.G. had always been comfortable being alone— enjoyed it, even— so he found little sense in the thought that he wanted to go to the exhibition with Lenore or not at all. Or not at all? Or not at all. That gave him pause, releasing his hold on his luggage to pull out his wallet. With not having yet spent the money saved to reserve a room, he had enough for another train ticket.

And he was off again. No second guessing, no wondering if he had let Lenore rub off too much on him, no muttering to himself that this was terribly rash and that he was thinking like a fool. He was far too busy booking it back to the train station for any of that, luggage rockily rolling behind him over the streets of Boston. Did he look like a madman? Probably. Did he care? Not in the slightest, at the moment.

He didn’t need to try to recall when the SS Adolphine was leaving port, the telling interaction had come back to mind immediately upon the consideration of going back to New York. It had been boiling in him the moment he had sat down on the train to Boston, writhing in the back of his mind. Before he had been sensible enough to disregard the idea, but now, turning on his heel into the ticket booth, he found himself feeling quite senseless. 

It was leaving tomorrow. He could still catch her.


	5. Boarding II

The ride back to New York included what were possible the most frenzied hours of H.G.’s life, which was not to be taken lightly with past deadlines and his chronic nervosity and fanaticism in mind. He may have been too preoccupied to condemn how impulsive this pivotal decision was earlier, but he had quite enough time now. He could arrive too late, missing Lenore and the exhibition, he could trip over his tongue and create a misunderstanding, she could spurn him, the world could cave in and swallow him whole— or, perhaps that last bit was unrealistic.

It soon grew dark outside, stars beginning to speckle the atramentous sky. Being an afternoon trip, the train would arrive at its destination late into the night. Other passengers slowly rose around him, making their way to their sleeping quarters, but he stayed. He stayed until the last person had left, including the train staff member who had rhetorically asked if he knew what time it was and who he replied to by awkwardly pulling out his pocket watch with a nod. He stayed even after that, left alone to work through his rampant thoughts.

As a man of science, the fervid pull he felt to follow Lenore was befuddling. They had known each other just shy of four days, it was unreasonable to feel as strongly as he did. As a man of literature, the feeling was awfully familiar to that which he had read a thousand times over and even written himself. The last few days were the happiest he had felt for a long time, and he hoped dearly that his Lenore felt the same.

H.G. shook his head at how enamoured he sounded, finally getting up to go and rest. Nevertheless he smiled, just to himself, because people tended to do that when in love.

•••

A hard knocking at his sleeper car’s door woke him, followed by the conductor’s sharp voice explaining that it was time to depart. Faintly, he heard the same knocking and explanation repeated at the next door, then even fainter at the next. He went to put his clothes on, mind still half submerged in the strange dream he was having where he had died then achieved time travel as a ghost. There was a mumble or yawn here and there from the other passengers, but they were otherwise quiet, all shuffling out of the train into the station in a haze. It was a slow process, unlike the eager scattering that had occurred in daylight, the crowd leisurely greeted by crickets and humidity once having exited.

Shaking the remnants of sleep from his shoulders, H.G. dove into the city. It was 1AM, so said his watch, so he might as well take the chance to look around— especially seeing as he had no reservations to stay anywhere. He should have gone to pay for his cancelled room at the small hotel in Boston before he left back to New York, but now he supposed he would have to mail the fee. The road was bestrewn with drunk party-goers and other travelers, it being far too late for anyone in normal circumstances to be out and about. He had always been frightfully circumspect, and it was painfully apparent to him how out of his wheelhouse this situation was as he wandered.

Spotting a couple benches where the road dead-ended, he decided to sit down, collect himself. H.G. wasn't exactly an intimidating man, he knew that, and it made him an easy target to pick on. Being easy to pick on was not something you wanted to be in a place you've never been in the middle of the night, no less a big city. The distant, garbled chatter of wasted strangers reminded him as much, urging him to sit up straighter in his seat.

Ultimately, he decided to read, pulling out Off on a Comet— another Verne novel he particularly enjoyed— from his luggage. Even though the setting was rather dire, he found solace in the fact that the main characters made it to safety in the end, so it had become something of a comfort book for him. He had intended on reading it on the train, but obviously the train ride hadn't played out exactly as he had imagined. He flipped to the first page, ink scarcely illuminated by the lamppost above him.

•••

Before long, H.G. had worked through more than half of the novel and the sun was rising, the city bustling with life. Which meant that time was running out again.

Somewhere between then and now, he got up in a hurry, dog-earing his place in the book and stuffing it back in his rolling suitcase, and began feverishly asking around about the SS Adolphine. Did anyone know where the port was? Yes, it was on the east coast, about a mile away from where he was. When was it taking off? No one had a clue.

Too caught up in his disquietude, he neglected to notice the small woman in front of him, crashing directly into her.

“Hey!” Her voice was small, too.

“Oh, I— I beg your pardon. I d-didn’t see you there.”

While still a little aggrieved, the woman seemed to sense his sincerity, softening her already relatively soft expression and dusting off her grey cloak. “It’s okay, it happens more than you would think.”

He nodded, it was New York, after all, and she seemed like the type to be easily missed. “Thank you,” he hesitated a moment, wondering if it would be appropriate to continue considering his accidental rudeness. “Do you— Do you, ah, happen to know when the SS Adolphine is to m-make its departure?”

“Oh! Uh, I do, actually,” she seemed surprised that he was still talking to her, but not entirely displeased, “It’s leaving in 30 minutes, you’ll have to be quick if you don’t want to miss it.”

He jolted, as though electrically shocked, staggering in place and muttering another quick “thank you” before taking off towards where he had been informed the pier was.

People, thoughts, and structures of all shapes and sizes passed him by, a single mindedness overcoming him like when he was inventing or writing. The only things he could register were his feet making heavy contact with asphalt and his heartbeat hammering loud in his ears. Perhaps he forgot to breathe once or twice, that wasn’t so important as making it across the city, making it to Lenore.

The ship began to become visible above the tops of skyscrapers and he, impossibly, increased his pace.

By the time he reached the street that led into the port, a fair sum of people had made it onto the ship, and his heart dropped thinking that Lenore could have already boarded. That she was gone already. His legs felt like lead and he was gasping for air— he wasn’t the most physically fit person he knew— but he was more than willing to push himself.

H.G. scanned the crowd, leaning back and forth and going on tiptoe to try and find her. It was a massive group of people, most wealthy-looking with parasols and feathered hats and jewel cufflinks. Most impressive of all, though, was a woman in a white silken gown that bloomed out from the waist, lace sleeves billowing around her arms and a similarly lacy collar hugging her neck. She was undoubtedly the most gorgeous woman he had ever laid eyes on.

“Lenore!” 

She couldn’t hear him, of course, he was much too quiet and she was much too far away, but a wide grin crossed his face nonetheless.

Leaded muscles and lost breath forgotten, he made his way to the front of the flock, diving through people directly to her.

She was there. In front of him.

He was there. Beside her.

“L-Lenore.”

She startled, eyes blowing wide at who it was who’d spoken, “H.G.?!”

“Hello.” His earlier smile had yet to leave his face, and only intensified now.

“What are you doing here?” She beamed back at him.

“Well, y’see, I, ah, I had something... Something I wanted to say,” Lenore nodded expectantly, “So I—I came back to New York to say it because I thought it was important that you know, but thinking now i-it may not be that important. I’m rambling— I— What I mean to say, what I’m trying to say, I have, well, I feel—“

“Oh, shut up and kiss me.” 

His tie tightened around his throat as she pulled him by it, their lips colliding. He tilted his head to get a better angle, arms wrapping themselves around her waist as he felt hands go to the back of his neck. His glasses bumped against her face and people were moving around them but it was perfect. It was everything he could have ever wanted because it was with her.

They separated reluctantly, unadulterated exuberance plastered over both of their faces.

Between kisses and conversation, they suddenly reached the very front of the line, striking a new panic in him at his not having a ticket. He would have to leave her again. But Lenore vehemently insisted to the poor young boy at the entryway that H.G. was her loving husband and that she, a known celebrity, was deeply offended that he would not allow him aboard. One flustered and apologetic boy later, crossroads became one as the two boarded the ship.

“If you allow me, I will never leave your side again,” H.G. murmured against Lenore’s lips, both now settled in their seats for another long ride.

“You better not,” she teased, going in to kiss him again. And there was no one they would rather take that ride with.


End file.
